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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767164">Wish We Could</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/moondustsirius/pseuds/moondustsirius'>moondustsirius</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, complete disregard for canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:21:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,693</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24767164</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/moondustsirius/pseuds/moondustsirius</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of Howgarts, Hermione and Ron start dating; their slow-burn friends to lovers arc complete. He’s nice, and she’s comfortable, and everyone is happy for them. Everyone but Fred, who can’t stop thinking that he loved her first, and Hermione, who begins to wonder if they really are as over as she thought they were.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Loved You First</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>2nd May 1998, The Battle at Hogwarts</em>
</p><p>Hermione Jean Granger was far from perfect. No one knew that better than she did. But she was careful, and she didn’t break things she couldn’t fix, or at least she didn’t used to. So you can imagine the devastation she felt when she kissed Ron, when he kissed her back, and the years of bickering, and flirting with flirting ended in that one, cataclysmic moment. She saw Fred watching, she saw the break; the life she then realised she wanted more than anything broke to pieces right there in his startlingly green eyes. She heard Harry yell something at them, Ron peeled away, laughing, and Fred was gone. The show went on, as it had to, as it must, because  if there is one thing Hermione had learnt in her life, it’s that there is no such thing as a person, only players, and there is no free will, only the cruel pen of fate, and Hermione was its unwitting almost-heroine.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>22nd August 1998, Morning</em>
</p><p>So maybe things aren’t so bad. Ron is sweet, or he is trying to be. Ron calls precisely when he says he will. Ron comes to dinner with her parents. Ron tries his hardest to at least look like he is following their dentist-talk. Ron’s kisses are soft, though they tend to be more mushy than gentle. Ron smells like strawberry shampoo. Ron is learning everything he can about cricket, and Chelsea F.C, and Ron is memorising her favourites of everything. Ron is a practiced mummy’s boy, and hers simply adores him. And Ron is her friend, has been since First Year. Together they have fought trolls and rode dragons. They almost died together more times than she cares to count. Theirs is the story you couldn’t write, a romance blown to epic proportions, this love is sweeter than fiction, — right? So why is she so nervous?</p><p>Ron arrives at 0930 sharp, dressed in respectable dark grey trousers and a blood red jumper. He kisses Hermione on the cheek, hugs Mrs. Granger, and shares a firm handshake with Mr. Granger. He hands Hermione a bouquet of garden roses because, she supposes, they look enough like peonies. On observing that his white shirt collar is crumpled and half tucked in, she compulsively reaches out and straightens it. He blushes, and from the corner of her eye she sees her mother purse her lips as though trying not to smile, a gleam in her eye as she witnesses this small act of intimacy. Hermione drops her hand, wishing she could take it back.</p><p>The again restored powder blue Ford Anglia idles in the driveway. Mr. Granger makes a remark about car batteries, and Ron agrees, saying nothing of the vehicle’s extra-ordinary traits. He holds the door open for Mrs Granger and Hermione. You look beautiful today, he says as the latter slides past him. This is the first time her parents are visiting The Burrow, so she thought they would be more comfortable undertaking the journey the muggle way. Her parents, quite understandably, have become just the slightest bit skittish around magic since learning of their daughter’s escapades, starting from aged 12 to seven months ago, including the fact that she had erased their memories and sent them to Australia for the better part of a year. This had the unforeseen and rather unfortunate side-effect of inspiring in them a strong desire to become more involved in the social aspects of her ‘other life’, as they had come to think of it. When Ron showed up one day, shortly after she gave them back their memories, and re-introduced himself as her boyfriend, this day became inevitable. And so, they are on their way Ottery St. Catchpole to visit the Weasleys.</p><p>The conversation flows well enough, Ron proves surprisingly adept at keeping the usually rather withdrawn Mr. and Mrs. Granger talking about their work, and sports. Her parents, eager to make up for lost time, and to know everything about their daughter’s apparent suitor, ask him lots of questions about the upcoming school year, and the adventures of their past, though there is a significant portion they skirt around (the time she was petrified for instance). Ron knows when to listen and when to ask the right questions. Ron knows which stories to tell. Ron keeps them laughing enough that they don’t notice the ride to Devon is going much faster than the laws of physics allowed. And Hermione looks out the window, and says nothing. It is a scenic drive to the West Country. All rolling fields and blue skies. The sun, a pale gold, trips lightly through a barely there mist, and everything shimmers.</p><p>“Is everything okay?” Her mother asks, nudging her with her elbow. Hermione half turns to look at her and nods, saying nothing of the cold dampness rolling through her stomach.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>19th  June 1996</em>
</p><p>It didn’t come out of nowhere, their first kiss, though it would have looked that way to anyone watching. Maybe it wasn’t the best timing — okay it was terrible timing — but time suddenly seemed to be in short supply. After all, she had just almost died again — Hermione, and everyone else who had been at the Department of Mysteries the night before. It must have been afternoon but it was impossible to tell with the curtains drawn, shading the ward an artificial dusk. Everyone was sound asleep except her, and Sirius, who was in another room going mad from his glimpse beyond the veil. Hermione was reading a book. She could always find one.</p><p>Fred walked in alone. She remembered thinking that was weird, but when he pressed his lips to hers, it became apparent why. “What are you doing here?” she asked, keeping her voice low.</p><p>“Well in case you missed it, my brother, my sister, and my friends all just almost died. I got here is soon as I could.” He skips over the words with characteristic lightness, but there’s a gravity in his aspect she had never seen before.</p><p>“Well in that case you’re late,” she teases, her tired face jerking in the vague likeness of a smile.</p><p>“It’s just gone past seven in the morning,” he frowns, and brushes the hair from her cheek, “what time did you think it was?”</p><p>“Afternoon,” she sighed, leaning back into the pillows. “So I only slept for a few minutes then.”</p><p>“I’ll ask a nurse to get you more Sleeping Draught.” He turned to go but she grabbed his wrist to stop him. It seemed too intimate, but she liked it, and judging the grin that flitted across his face, so did he.</p><p>“Don’t. They’re busy.”</p><p>“You need to sleep. You’re a patient too.” He leaned down, gently kissed her on the forehead, and swept her hair back. “I’ll be right back.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>22nd August 1998, Afternoon</em>
</p><p>Hermione had hoped that she would have to act as mediator between her parents and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and that she would therefore be much too preoccupied to worry about how uniquely uncomfortable the circumstances are. But she had no such luck. Not only was Fred everywhere, but her parents and the Weasleys got along famously. Ron had apparently  well-advised his father on the appropriate number of muggle-specific questions to ask in an hour (one), and their mothers shared a passion for gardening. Already there was talk of exchanging various herb seedlings. She should be relieved, happy even, and it occurs to her that under different circumstances she would have been.</p><p>The rest of the gang had peeled away shortly after lunch in search of something more entertaining, leaving her and Ron alone with the parents. Hermione politely excuses herself from the table.</p><p>“And where do you think you’re sneaking off to Granger?” This particular red-haired boy  that she almost slams into is missing an ear.</p><p>“George!” The smile that creeps across her face is nothing short of ebullient. Perhaps even more so than his twin, George Weasley could put near anyone in a good humour. “I wasn’t sneaking off anywhere. I just… needed to use the loo.”</p><p>“Pity. We were just about to throw the Quaffle around. Could do with a sixth. I was meant to get Percy but I’m sure everyone would much prefer you.”</p><p>“Everyone?” She asks skeptically. George was, of course, the only one who knew about the car crash that had been hers and Fred’s… whatever it was.</p><p>“Everyone,” he insists.</p><p>It’s cold for August, the sky is clear and the sun is still shining in that enchanted way.  If there was a such a thing as perfect Quidditch weather, even Hermione would have had to admit that this was it. Harry has his arms wrapped around Ginny, saying something in her ear that makes them both laugh. Fred and Charlie talk a few feet away, watching them with equally perplexed and somewhat revolted expressions.</p><p>“If I saw Ron doing that I might just puke,” she hears Fred say. She could have heard him say anything and smile, but that particular remark makes something spark in her heart that she fights hard to stifle. “Oh, Hermione!” His pond-weed green eyes widen comically when he catches sight of her, the skin of his cheekbones turning pink. “Hi Hermione, hey!” He shifts his weight uncomfortably and looks away.</p><p>“Fred,” she says, cool as ever. “Hey Charlie!”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Hermione was it?” He asks with a teasing glance at Fred. “It’s good to see you again,” he adds, and gives her a brawny hug. She hadn’t actually managed to properly say hi to anyone earlier, there was so much excitement about Ron and Hermione, and The Meeting of the Parents. Harry and Ginny tear themselves apart and come over, and more hugs are shared. The divide themselves into teams of three, and for the first time in a while everything feels almost normal.</p><p>While she is by far the weakest player between the six of them, one simply could not spend years around Quidditch buffs without picking up a few things and Hermione, a true perfectionist, was now more than capable of sort of holding her own. And besides, Ginny was the only one present who actually played as a Chaser; George and Fred are more suited to whacking than passing, and Charlie and Harry, like most Seekers, are terrible at paying attention to other people. After a far too lengthy debate it was decided that the most balanced configuration was Hermione, George, and Harry against Ginny, Charlie, and Fred. Things get off to a slow start; it was nearly impossible to get Harry and Ginny to stop flirting and actually play the damned game. But once George slips past Charlie and scores an easy goal, it’s game on. He and Harry score five more between them in quick succession. Ginny, not one to take losing lightly, especially not to her Seeker boyfriend, ‘accidentally’ sends the Quaffle flying at Harry’s head, causing it to ricochet straight into Fred’s hands, and he makes fast work of scoring. They equalise soon after.</p><p>The game quickly degenerates into anarchy. Ginny bites George’s arm to keep him from scoring. Hermione flies up behind Harry and covers his eyes as he tries to make a pass. At some point, Charlie takes a shot and both George and Hermione dive to save it, ramming into each other head first. Hermione, much smaller, and the weaker flyer, falls off and George lunges to grab her arm but misses, so she’s free falling. Everyone swoops in to catch her but Fred gets there first. She slams into his outstretched arms, and his broom jerks down, threatening to send them both tumbling to the ground but he manages a semi-controlled landing and they both stumble onto the grass, winded and half in shock, but otherwise okay. Bending over with their hands on their knees, they catch their breaths while the others land one by one. Their eyes meet, and they experience a fleeting, shinning moment of absolute clarity.</p><p>“Well I suppose it’s been a good few months since someone’s almost died,” Ginny quips. All faces turn to her, stunned, speechless. She shrugs and makes a face as if to say am I wrong? And just like that the tension dissolves into hysterics, and they’re laughing — side-stitch, red-face, on the floor laughing harder than any of them have in longer than they can remember.</p><p>“Sorry,” George manages between gasps for air. “I’m really sorry.”</p><p>“You better be careful Georgie,” Fred says with a pointed, peevish sideways glance in Hermione’s direction, “wouldn’t want to incur the wrath of ickle Ronnikins now would we?” In that moment she swears she could deck him, and she’s sure he only said it because he knows she can’t.</p><p>“What’s going on here?” The voice cuts through the hilarity like an ice pick.</p><p>“Nothing dad!” Hermione trills defensively “We were just messing around.”</p><p>“Well no one invited me,” Ron groans at what he thinks is a discrete volume, but earns their party a withering look from Mrs. Weasley anyway.</p><p>“Sorry Ron,” Charlie offers diplomatically, “but we had an even six and if you joined then we would have had to ask Percy to play too —”</p><p>“— I heard that!” Comes the disembodied screech from inside.</p><p>“— which we of course would have thoroughly enjoyed but he’s just so hard at work helping to rebuild the wizarding world in these trying times.” Charlie works very hard at keeping a straight face while the rest of them burst into laughter again. He may have been laying it on a bit thick, but it works well enough to put an end to the subject, and they all go inside for tea. Fred shoots Hermione another peevish grin, and this time it’s undeniable; she wants to kiss him as much as she wants to absolutely eviscerate him.</p><p>Evening</p><p>No, Fred Weasley does not know what he’s doing. He just know it’s a bad idea, and that he can’t stop himself. He can’t stop his heart working double-time whenever he catches sight of Hermione. He can’t stop watching his younger brother talking to Mr. and Mrs. Granger, and thinking that it should be him. He couldn’t stop the rush he felt when he had Hermione in his arms, and he can’t stop wishing that he hadn’t had to let go. He couldn’t stop the hope that sparked in his chest when they landed and she looked at him that way, and he can’t stop it happening again every time he replays the moment in his head. He also cannot stop replying the moment in his head.</p><p>He can’t stop looking at her. He couldn’t stop himself from sitting across from her at dinner. He can’t stop himself brushing her fingers when she passes him the butter, and the salt, and the pepper and the peas. He can’t stop looking at how her skin glows bronze, and her dark hair flecks golden red in the warm, floating-candle light. He can’t stop thinking how he loved her first. He can’t stop any of it.</p><p>“You’re playing a dangerous game here,” Charlie says low into his ear, after the third time he asks Hermione to please pass the plate of Yorkshire puddings.</p><p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“She’s dating our brother.”</p><p>“I know that.”</p><p>“So what are you doing?”</p><p>“I’m not doing anything” he snaps, struggling to keep an even keel. Charlie leans back with a satisfied smirk and says no more on the subject for the rest of dinner, but he does yelp when Fred spills hot soup onto his lap.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>20th June 1996</em>
</p><p>Already Hogwarts felt like something from another age. Was it just months ago George and Fred turned the fifth floor corridor into a swamp and flew off into the sunset, hanging up their blue and and bronze ties with so much flair and theatricality? It didn’t seem possible. Held up in the early morning’s grey light, against the dense mist rolling over the glassy, black lake, that moment seems somewhat lurid now. So Voldermort was back. They already knew that, and now everyone else did too.</p><p>“Are we going to talk about yesterday?” Hermione asks, her voice splintering the thin silence. The question catches him entirely by surprise. First because he wasn’t sure how she knew it was him coming up behind her. Second because she had seemed to be ignoring him since the hospital.</p><p>“Do you want to talk about yesterday?”</p><p>“Why did you kiss me?” She tried to sound cold, but a slight whine in her voice made it obvious that she had been fretting over the question.</p><p>“Because I wanted too, and because I almost didn’t get the chance.</p><p>After some consideration, during which she was completely still and he shifted anxiously on his feet, she turned to him and said, “I think I’d like to do it again. Just to see.”</p><p>He kissed her without hesitation, tilting her head back with his hands on either side of her face. It was brief and it was sweet. “Was that okay?”</p><p>“That was perfect. Thank you.” She turned back to face the lake, agonisingly unreadable. After a moment, she reached out and silently took his hand.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>22nd August 1998, Night</em>
</p><p>There is nothing Hermione wants more than to dive into bed and stay there until it’s time to go to King’s Cross. Or better, to simply wake up on the 2nd of September and find herself in History of Magic, or Transfiguration. Maybe if she was lucky, Professor McGonagall would teach her how to turn herself into a teapot. At least that way she will always be full of tea and she’ll never have to think about boys again. But no, there had to be showers, and hot chocolate, and going over the evening with her parents in agonising detail. When she at last manages to escape, she is already halfway up the stairs when her mother calls out.</p><p>“The twin with both ears — Fred — was he the young man that used to call all the time?”</p><p>“Yes,” Hermione replies curtly, a prickle of heat rising up her neck.</p><p>“What happened between the two of you?”</p><p>“Nothing,” she shrugs, trying her best to look nonchalant. Too much. Not enough.</p><p>She tries to go to sleep but fails. She reads but can’t concentrate, as is wont to happen on the rare occasions books seem to yield no answers or insight. Eventually she takes to laying upside down on her bed, staring at the pinprick lights criss-crossing her ceiling. There’s a tap at her window, and turning her head reveals a familiar old bird. A really old bird. At the sight of Errol she scrambles, perhaps a little too excitedly, to slide the window open. He offers her his leg, and the attached scrap of parchment. She scratches his head and offers him the small bowl of birdseed she keeps nearby for such occasions. He flies away. She unfurls the note, and sees the familiar, elegant script that he uses when he’s up to something:</p><p>
  <i>Mademoiselle Granger,</i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i></i>
</p><p>
  <i>I would like to request the joy of your company at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour this coming Monday, the twenty-fourth of August, at ten o’clock ante meridiem.  </i>

 </p><p><i>Sincerely, F. Weasley</i>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. London</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b> <em>22nd August 1998, Night</em> </b>
</p><p>“Well that was a colossally stupid thing to do,” George says from his old bed in The Burrow, spending the night at their mother’s insistence. Half laying down, he doesn’t look up from his magazine. Fred stands uncomfortably still, staring out the window, as though shell-shocked, even though Errol has long been out of sight.</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b><em>23rd August 1998, Morning</em> </b>
</p><p>It was true that it didn’t take an awful lot to keep her up all night: a new book, a good essay, or better, a long one. Hermione had pulled her fair share of all-nighters, but none like this.</p><p>“Were you up all night reading again darling?” Her mother asks, taking stock of her daughter’s messier than usual hair, the shadows around her puffy eyes.</p><p>“Yes.” This wasn’t a lie exactly — she’d read that letter countless times.</p><p>“You look awful.” It sounds harsh, but her mother’s furrowed brow shows real concern.</p><p>“It was a sad story.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>1st July 1996</em> </b>
</p><p>Summer had come to engender mixed emotions in Hermione. On the one hand she was of course excited to see her parents again, but on the other, she missed her friends terribly. She never had friends like Ron and Harry before; friends she saw day and night, friends she shared every meal with, friends she knew from experience would risk their lives for her as quickly as she would for them. She had no siblings, and had hardly kept in touch with the few friends from primary school. It was too difficult to keep fabricating stories about her Very Normal Boarding School Where Nothing Life-Threatening Ever Happened. So home for Hermione had become synonymous with the sort of deep-seated loneliness one only feels when one knows precisely what they are missing.</p><p>And now, to make matters worse, there was Fred. Fred who had kissed her in the hospital, and again by the lake, and again in several empty hallways while they waited for term to officially end. Fred who had, over the past year become more important to her than she ever would have expected. Fred, who didn’t look at her like he was lost and she was supposed to have the map, or make it. Fred, who so often grabbed her by the hand with a whiny <em>come on Hermione</em>, mischief dancing across his face,and dragged her along for some pure and honest thrill-seeking, who showed her the world as she had never seen it before.</p><p>The shrill ring of the telephone abruptly cut through her melancholia. Assuming it was only her parents phoning from work, she took her time making her way downstairs.</p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>“Hermione?”</p><p>“Fred?” She asked, her voice pitched with incredulity. “How are you calling? Why are you calling?”</p><p>“I believe it’s called a payphone and I am using one because I wanted to talk to you.” Even through the crackle and static, the teasing grin in his voice was obvious.</p><p>“Wanted?”</p><p>“Want.” He could hear the smile in her voice too.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>24th August 1998, 10:17 a.m.</em> </b>
</p><p>Perhaps George was right, and that her silence over the weekend means she isn’t coming. She is wiser than Fred after all. And George is usually right. Still, Fred waits, at an al fresco table at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, his right leg bouncing manically up and down, his eyes flitting to his watch every few seconds. He has been sitting there for forty-eight minutes.</p><p>Of course, Hermione knew at once that it was an undoubtedly bad idea, going to see Fred. Though really, it would only be a bad idea if she still has feelings for him, which she doesn’t, or if he still has feeling fore her, which she is sure isn’t true either. Then there is the fact that she had hardly made it to Florean’s all summer, and he has a lovely blackcurrant and gin ice-cream that he’s meant to stop making once Autumn rolls round. But then there is the question of why precisely Fred wants to meet her. And then there is Ron. Such thoughts chased each other in circles around her head, nipping at each other’s heals all Saturday night and most of Sunday, until another owl arrived. This one with a note from Flourish and Blotts asking her to please collect her order at her earliest convenience. Was Monday morning around 10 a.m. not her earliest convenience?</p><p>And so at eight-thirty on this almost chilly August morning, Hermione left her house for Belsize Park station, hopped on the Northern line, and alighted five stops later at Leister Square. She walked two minutes in the direction of The Leaky Cauldron, changed her mind, and instead went to Foyles, which reminded her that she did indeed need to go to Flourish and Blotts. After buying just three books and a new book bag, she again made her way to The Leaky Cauldron, then onward to Diagon Alley. This whole harrowing ordeal took over an a hour, and so apart from picking up <em>Merlin’s Annotated Dante’s Inferno</em>, she decided to splurge a little on some new quills, a well of peacock blue ink, and a couple of fancy leather bound notebooks.</p><p>It is perhaps this added weight that, on observing Fred Weasley’s anxious form outside Florean’s, impedes her attempted escape. Instead, before she can take two steps back the way she just came, she feels a hand pulling at her wrist.</p><p>“Hermione, wait.” She turns to see him looking imploringly at her with his bright green eyes, so wide and so close she can see flecks of gold in them, reflecting the morning sun. “It’s just ice-cream.”</p><p>Just ice-cream — who could argue with that? They order two scoops each and return to the table he had already occupied, Hermione dumping her bag on an empty chair emphatically in a show of annoyance. For a while they sit in silence; her refusing to speak first, and him not wanting to risk ruining their fragile peace. She scoops ice-cream into her mouth without looking up from her bowl, and he eats slowly, without looking away from her.</p><p>“I want the record to show that I think this is a colossally stupid thing to do,” she says suddenly, her eyes still fixed on her food.</p><p>“Well I suppose ice-cream’s never the healthiest thing in the world but Florean’s is pretty —“</p><p>“You know what I mean,” she cuts him off bitingly.</p><p>“The record will reflect that both you and George think that this is a colossally stupid thing to do. However, I would like to remind all relevant parties that it was my idea, and between the two of us I am the only Ravenclaw so therefore—“</p><p>“What do you want Fred.” She phrased it like a question, but her tone makes it abundantly clear that she would like nothing more than for him to just shut up.</p><p>“I just want to talk.” He looks abashed, or as abashed as he can look for Fred Weasley.</p><p>“I’m not sure we have anything to talk about.”</p><p>“Oh,” he says in a tone both needled and needling, “I think we have plenty to talk about.”</p><p>“Like what Frederick? You broke us up remember? Not me. You’re the one who walked away —”</p><p>“<em>I</em> <em>walked away</em>? You were the one who was leaving. <em>You left —</em>”</p><p>“I <em>had </em>to go. <em>You’re</em> the one who said you couldn’t —“</p><p>“And you’re the one who hung up the phone. And you’re the one who kissed —”</p><p>“I knew this was a mistake.” She grabs her bag, her chair scraping harshly on the flagstones in her haste to leave, desperate to not hear the end of that sentence.</p><p>“Hermione —“ He whines, but she doesn’t look at him. Can’t.</p><p>“Good bye Fred.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>17th July 1997</em> </b>
</p><p>“Good bye Fred.”</p><p>“Hermione —“</p><p>A click as the phone disconnected. He stood alone in the red phone booth, in the flat above the store.</p><p>“You alright there mate?” George asked from the couch, turning from the <em>Daily Prophet,</em> his brows furrowed with concern.</p><p>The receiver still held to his ear. The singular, monotonous hang-up tone filled his head, his body, pervading the very fibre of his being.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>2nd July 1996, Morning</em> </b>
</p><p>“Buoyant” was the only word that came to mind as Hermione walked down Charing Cross.  She felt buoyant. She had resigned herself to spending the week or so before she and her parents went on vacation wandering around Hampstead with nothing but her books for entertainment, until Fred called and asked if they could meet the following day — today — at The Leaky Cauldron. So she made her way there, buoyantly, glad for some company and more so that it was his.</p><p>“Granger!” He hailed from the curb. Of course, her heart didn’t <em>actually</em> skip a beat, but it felt like it did.</p><p>“Why are you waiting out here?”</p><p>“Well the Cauldron’s a bit of a dive yeah? And Diagon Alley is just the <em>one</em> alley and we’ve been loads so I thought maybe you could show me your London?” He says, all in one breath. She wasn’t sure but she thought his face pinked a little.</p><p>“My London?”</p><p>“You know… Muggle London.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I dunno — if I’m going to live here I should know the area. And,” he added, looking down and rubbing the back of his neck. His speech became stilted. “I want to know what your world’s like.”</p><p>“Okay,” she smiled. Buoyantly.</p><p>The first place she thought to take him was of course Foyles bookstore, because it was close, and because, well, books. A whole monumental treasury of books.</p><p>“Bloody hell,” his eyes widened in child-like wonderment the second they walked through the door. The patchwork rainbow of spines and covers, the smell of new books, the sheer notion of being surrounded by so many stories, and so much knowledge. Even if it only lasted a moment, Hermione had never seen him so still or so quiet before, and she briefly wondered if she had broken him. “This place is massive,” he spun around as he spoke, taking it all in, “is everything in London this big?”</p><p>“Not everything. Just a lot of things.” She couldn’t look away from him, the spark in his eyes eliciting an adoring smile. “Did you bring any quid?”</p><p>“What’s that?” He asked, not really listening.</p><p>“Pounds, muggle money, did you bring any?”</p><p>His face blanched as he turned to look at her sheepishly. “Might have forgotten. But I have regular money.”</p><p>“‘Regular’ is a state of mind Frederick. And wizard currency far from regular. It’s ridiculous.”                                </p><p>“It’s not!”</p><p>“29 knuts to a sickle and 17 sickles to a galleon? It’s completely impractical.”</p><p>“Okay fine. <em>Maybe</em> you have a point.”</p><p>“Oh I definitely have a point.” Hermione retorted, grinning from ear to ear. She insisted that she had been meaning to change some money anyway, so they switched 10 galleonss for £50.</p><p>He moved further inside slowly, overwhelmed and unsure of where to start. At first he simply trailed behind her, but eventually wandered off on his own, winding through the stacks and pulling books off the shelves to peruse at length. She found him in a corner near the children’s section over an hour later, surrounded by piles of books ranging from classic literature to astrophysics. The only things he seemed sure of were a home improvement manual for Mr. Weasley, and the first two volumes of <em>Asterix and Obelix</em>.</p><p>“You alright there, Frederick?” She asked, crouching down beside him.</p><p>“There’s so many Hermione. How am I supposed to pick? I’ve never even heard of half these subjects before. Do I need a book about aerospace technology? Do I need seven? How should I know?”</p><p>“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you don’t need any.”</p><p>“Help me,” he whined, looking up at her with his big, doleful green eyes. He had never in his life felt quite so distressed. She sorted through the volumes surrounding him, eventually selecting <em>The English Patient </em>— one of her personal favourites — <em>A Midsummer Night’s Dream, </em>and a history of 20th century archaeological discoveries.</p><p>When they at last emerged, it was onto a London bustling with the lunch-time rush. Rather hungry themselves they went in search of sustenance and managed, with a little magical persuasion, to find a table in a small French bakery. At their window seat they split a quiche Lorraine and a croque monsieur, drank iced-chocolate, and tried to stave off the crash that inevitably follows a bookstore-high.</p><p>“You’re being awfully quiet today.”</p><p>“Hm?” He perked up. “Oh, sorry. It’s just a lot to take in, this.” He gestured vaguely to the sprawling city outside.</p><p>“But do you like it?”</p><p>He shrugged. “I love it.”</p><p>“Good.” She smiled, satisfied, settling further back in her seat.</p><p>“Do you like it?” He asked after a moment’s silence, studying her face carefully.</p><p>She picked at her food, considering. “I do but… I’m usually alone. I think I like it better with you.” She paused, then nodded as if affirming the truth of it to herself. “This quiche is pretty good.” She raised her fork but before she could take another bite, he was leaning across the table, one hand lightly holding her face, pressing his mouth to hers.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>24th August 1998, Evening/Night</em> </b>
</p><p><b></b>This time, Hermione is certain of it. She will not leave her room until the first of September. Her parents however are not on the same page.</p><p>“Hermione dear?” Her mother calls, hearing the jingle of keys in the front door. “Is that you? Come into the kitchen.” Hermione obliges, and finds her parents reading different newspapers at the kitchen table, with a steaming pot of earl grey and a plate of shortbread between them like they did everyday after work. The sight is enough to warm Hermione’s heart. She had missed this almost more than she could bear.</p><p>“How was your day darling?” Her father asks without looking up.</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>“Did you buy any books?” Mrs. Granger does not look up either.</p><p>“I bought a few, yes.”</p><p>“That’s nice.” Her father offers, taking a sip of his tea.</p><p>Hermione lingers by the doorway, not saying anything. Eventually her mother looks at her, and observes a certain heaviness in her countenance. “Why do you look upset? Come sit down and have some tea.”</p><p>“Is this about Ron?” Mr Granger inquires, a particularly paternal brand of protectiveness evident in both his tone and in his eyes.</p><p>“Is it about the brother?” Her mother asks with hawklike instinct.</p><p>“Are you thinking about your… adventures?”</p><p>“You promised no more secrets darling.”</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” Hermione interjects before they can pursue their line of questioning any further. They blink at her, equally taken aback. “If that’s okay with you,” she adds imploringly, unwaveringly meeting their eyes. They in turn consider their daughter carefully.</p><p>“Well alright then,” her mother says, turning back to her paper. “Dinner is in an hour. Go wash up.”</p><p>So she does, and she eats dinner with her parents, and after that she re-reads her new herbology textbook in the living room while her mother reads a le Carré and her father listens to a radio comedy. And she’s happy, honestly. She’s happy to be nestled in the warm glow of her childhood home, with her unchanging parents. She’s happy they are safe, and that for the first time in years there was nothing foreboding hovering on the horizon. She is happy, or at least, she is content.</p><p>Fred Weasley on the other hand is far from happy or content. After his rather disastrous morning he went straight back to the flat above the store, determined to spend the rest of his day off in bed. He didn’t move for hours. Rather impressively, he was still in bed when George came up after closing. His hair stuck out at odd angles as though he had been trying to pull it out, his sheets were fitfully dishevelled.</p><p>“Oh mate,” said George with an emphatically slow shake of his head, “you really need to get a grip.”</p><p>Fred looked up from <em>Asterix and Cleopatra</em>, shooting his brother a reproachful look.</p><p>“I’m going into London to get dinner. Do try to regain some level of composure before I get back yeah?”</p><p>That seemed like too much effort, so Fred fell asleep instead. He wakes up much later, at 1:38 a.m with <em>London </em>rolling round his head like a marble dipped in luminous dye, tracing webs of light. Quietly, he grabs his Nimbus 2001, climbs out the window onto the roof, and shoots off into the night. A certain frost sparks in the air, pinching at his skin. The wind whips through his hair, at his cheeks, stirs something inside his chest.</p><p>All the lights are off in the Grangers’ Hampstead home when he arrives, about 20 minutes later. All but the warm glow of a reading lamp emanating from what he knows is Hermione’s window. He hovers across the street, obscured by trees and shadow. He can see her silhouette on the sheer white curtains, sitting in bed, perfectly still, her head bowed slightly. Reading, most likely. His mind wanders to all the times he’d seen her in that exact posture, in a zen-state of complete focus; her small placid mouth, her smooth brow, the inward curve of her nose, mahogany brown ringlets framing her face. He remembers how he used to try and touch her cheek, her nose, her mouth, and how she would swat him away like she was shooing a fly.</p><p>She moves; her arms stretch above her head, her hands intertwined. She switches off the light, and Fred goes home.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>2nd July 1996, Evening</b>
</p><p><b></b>“Had a good day darling?” Her mother called from the kitchen as Hermione closed the front door.</p><p>“It was alright, yes,” she said, leaning against the kitchen doorway. But the smile spread across her face suggested that it was a lot more than simply <em>alright</em>.</p><p>“What did you do?” Her father asked, his nose still in his paper.</p><p>“Oh you know, just went central. I met up with Fred. Went to Foyles. Had lunch. Walked around.”</p><p>“Who’s Fred?” Her father asked sharply, head snapping to face her.</p><p>“Ron’s brother,” she replied. Suddenly embarrassed, she shifted her weight nervously.  “One of the twins. You’ve met him before dad.”</p><p>“Why were you with Fred?” Her mother’s stare was as piercing as her father’s tone.</p><p>“Well he and George just moved to Diagon Alley and he asked me to show him around a bit,” she replied in one breath.</p><p>“Just Fred?”</p><p>“Yes.” Her face burned under her parents’ scrutiny, and she struggled to hold their gaze, not wanting to seem guilty, like she was hiding something.</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Hermione only shrugged in response, pursed her lips, desperate for this to be over. “I’m going to shower now.” She turned abruptly and left the room.</p><p>“Dinner’s in an hour,” Mrs. Granger called after her daughter. A door slammed shut upstairs. She turned to her husband, and they shared a look of utter disbelief.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Hogwarts Express</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <b>
      <em>2nd June, 1996</em>
    </b>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So how was your date?” George asked with a sing-song lilt as soon as Fred arrived back at the store, an impish grin splashed across his face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “What date?” Fred feigned innocence, and rather poorly. He wound his way through a maze of boxes, putting his things behind the counter before setting about stocking shelves with his brother. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You know, the one you were on all day with a certain curly haired, amber skinned, friend of the family.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Doesn’t ring a bell,” answered Fred, pursing his lips and shaking his head as though lost. He told his brother everything, usually. But this was different — felt different. For now at least, he wanted him and Hermione to be just him and Hermione, alone together and shinning.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Oh you know, about yay high, half-Indian, half-Caribbean, muggle born, a fair bit posh, definitely too posh for the likes of—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Mate,” his demeanour darkened dramatically, “if you don’t stop it, I’m going to have to smack you.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> However, considering that in doing so he would wind up hurting himself too, George persisted, confident that Fred wouldn’t. A nice bit of twin magic that. Or a curse, depending on where you stood. So he followed his brother around the store, pelting him with questions. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Where’d you go? What’d you do? What’s Foyles? Are those books? Can I see? Did you get something for me? Fred did you get something for me? Did you kiss? Did you hold hands?Did you kiss her Fred? Fred did you kiss her? You know it’s funny, I always thought Hermione and Ron— OW!” His upper arm throbbed in pain, and he looked down to see a red patch on his arm roughly the size of Fred’s fist. Fred stalked upstairs, his trainers thumping loudly on the steps, rubbing the same spot on his own arm.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Late that night, George rolled over in bed, and Fred’s arm throbbed in pain. “Sorry,” Fred said from his own bed across the room, his voice meek.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s fine,” was George’s sleep-gruff response. He meant it, and that only made Fred feel worse. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It was a good day. If you were still wondering.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Good, I’m glad.”And he meant that too. Fred could hear the smile in his voice.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Minutes trickled by, then hours. George’s breathes came slower, and quieter as he fell asleep, and Fred lay awake, his eyes fixed on the blackness above. <em>Fred and Hermione</em> he said to himself over and over, finding new empathy for 10-year-old Ginny devoutly drawing hearts around Harry’s name. He couldn’t believe his luck, was almost certain it wouldn’t last, couldn’t shake the feeling that they were on borrowed time. He said their names like an incantation, like a mantra, like a prayer. <em>Fred and Hermione.</em> He would hold on to it as long as he could, as long as he was allowed. <em>Fred and Hermione.</em> He let the phrase well in his ears, warm, and light, and rosy. He let it percolate through his body, warm and shinning from his head to his toes, until at last he fell asleep.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <b>
      <em>1st September, 1998</em>
    </b>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He couldn’t exactly not go to King’s Cross, it being Ginny and Ron’s last year at Hogwarts and all. Seeing Hermione was just a bonus, even if she wouldn’t talk to him, or look at him. Even if she had ignored every owl and phone call since they last saw each other. Even if he had to see Ron kiss her, even if his only small comfort was convincing himself that maybe he saw her pull away away. It was, he thought, enough just to see her from across the station. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> And Hermione hadn’t doubted for a second that he would be there. Still, seeing him set her teeth on edge, the familiar, biting, <em>Fred Weasley</em> brand of annoyance shooting through her, from her stomach to her jaw. Just look at him, standing there, his legs spread in a V, one arm crossing his chest, the fingers of his other hand touching his lips, <em>laughing</em> at something Ginny says. His ginger hair coiffed, and in brilliant contrast to his white t-shirt and navy bomber. What an arse. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Hermione’s thoughts, like his, turn inevitably, unerringly, unstoppably to the last time they were both on Platform 9 and three-quarters.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <b>
      <em>1st September, 1996</em>
    </b>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The summer had been peppered with moments like this; Fred tenderly rubbing cream into bruised skin beneath her eye after she had fallen victim to a trick telescope, Fred showing up outside her window on his broom in the middle of the night, to take her anywhere, or to just stay and talk a while, Fred reaching out to stroke her face, not unlike Crookshanks, while she read, Fred flinging and arm around her while they walked, or playfully shoving into her and running away so that she had to chase after him to get her revenge. Fred pulling her in for a kiss before she could. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> And snogging, — thistime behind a pillar in a half hearted attempt to not be seen, at least not by anyone who would care. Her arms around his neck, his hands on her waist, something pink glittering under her skin, his skin. Neither of them had felt anything like it before and both we sure they would never feel that way ever again, not with anyone else. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Stop it you’re going to make me late,” she whined, but she was smiling and made no attempt to pull away. Maybe she could spare a few more seconds. It wasn’t like she had to say goodbye to anyone else anyway. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “It’s fine that was just the warning whistle.” His voice muffled against her lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Come <em>on</em> Fred. “</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Can’t,“ he teased, “don’t go there anymore.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Frederick,” she’d said in her best warning tone. She was going to be late for the prefects’ meeting. <em>He</em> was going to make her late. Fred let out a deep sigh, rubbed his nose against her neck, kissed her quick once, twice, three times on the mouth before he dropped his arms and let her go. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Granger,” he called. She hadn’t taken three steps. Half turning around, she fixed him with a quizzical look. “I miss you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Ridiculous</em>, she thought. She rolled her eyes. She walked away before he could see the smile that cracked across her face, grateful that he couldn’t see her blush. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She felt a pang of sadness, boarding the train. She hadn’t had anyone else to say goodbye to. At her insistence, her parents hadn’t come. <em>The Weasleys’ are always running late. There wouldn’t be time for a proper goodbye. Yes, I’m sure. I’ll see you at Christmas. I promise. I love you too.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Of course, she would have preferred they be there, but it seemed much too dangerous, all things considered. Voldemort clearly wasn’t hiding anymore, and she didn’t want anyone remembering what her parents look like. In fact, when whatever was coming eventually came, she wanted her parents as far away from her as possible. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> But such thoughts were cut short by the fluttering of paper on her cheek. She pulled a small folded aeroplane from the air, unfolded it on her way to the prefects carriage, observed the now familiar script, halfway between elegant and utterly illegible. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>You’re perfect Granger.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> And just like that she was smiling again.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">
    <b>
      <em>1st September, 1998</em>
    </b>
  </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He throws another fugitive glance in her direction, but this time he catches her looking too. She narrows her eyes at him before snapping her attention back to her parents. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You have to write to us everyday, do you understand Hermione? Everyday. And we want pictures. Lots of them. Do you have the camera?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes dad,” she says, trying her best to keep the exasperation out of her voice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “And film?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yes mama.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Okay. Good, good,” her father says. Both her parents are looking at her with the same, worried expressions that cross their faces whenever Hogwarts had come up recently. They don’t particularly understand why Hermione doesn’t just do her A Levels, go to a nice Muggle university, stay far away from the world that had put her in so much danger. She hadn’t ruled it out entirely — A Levels and uni, but she isn’t one to not finish something she started, and she <em>definitely</em> isn’t one to run scared, at the first sign of trouble. Or the hundredth for that matter. Besides, there is the burning desire to experience at least one semi-normal year at Hogwarts to take into account.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Are you sure about this darling?” Her mother asks again, the same pained expression on her face. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Her parents had married young, and were in their late-30s the first time they sent her off to Hogwarts. The intervening years had been kind to them, no doubt, but there was no denying the crows feet carved into her father’s dark skin, the wisps of white hair falling like thin satin ribbons, framing her mother’s ashy brown face, the creases in their brows. They had plenty of time left, it was true, but none they wanted to spare, and Hermione had been so distant for so long. Still…</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Very,” she says, apologetically.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “You’ll write everyday, won’t you?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Everyday,” she confirms</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Well, okay then. You better go.” The train whistles in agreement. Mrs. Granger pulls Hermione into a bony hug, all collar bones and elbows, but warm and reassuring nonetheless.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Everyone boards, Hermione piling into a carriage with Harry, Ginny, Ron, Luna, and Neville. She gives her parents final kisses on the cheeks, leaning out the window as the Hogwarts Express glides out of the station. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She stays that way, leaning on the windowpane, long after King’s Cross is out of sight. She watches farm and field roll past as the crips autumn whips nips at her face. The carriage is crowded and suitably noisy, everyone excited and nervous in equal measure at the prospect of returning to Hogwarts. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> A small paper aeroplane flutters toward her, pausing in front of her nose. She plucks it from the air, and unfolds it with needlessly careful fingers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I miss you Granger. </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> No one is looking so, perhaps for the first time in her life, Hermione acts without thinking too much, without giving her the chance to lose courage. No one pays attention as she rummages in her rucksack for a quill, or when she hastily scrawls a reply, refolds it into a plane, and breathes on it to make it fly. There. Now it’s done. Now he’ll know. No turning back now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> She feels lighter suddenly, and pulls her body into the carriage to keep from being blown away. She listens to Luna tell one of her ridiculous stories, and to everyone’s surprise, she smiles good-naturedly instead of tearing the (lack of) reason apart, as she would have done once upon a time. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Alright, Hermione?” She turns to find Ginny looking at her curiously, her pink, delicate face set with perhaps the faintest hint of concern. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Yeah,” Hermione says smiling, a reckless joy bubbling in her chest, “I’m great.” She laughs and Ginny, though she’s not sure what’s so funny, laughs too, simply happy that her friend is. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Things go quiet the closer they get to Hogwarts, each person drawing increasingly inward, all trying to imagine what it will be like to walk those halls again — halls that they themselves helped rebuild just months ago. What it would be like to eat in the Great Hall as they had done so many times, to sit through History of Magic knowing that recently they had no small part in making it. They pull on their robes in silence, do their best to clean up the sweet wrappers and pasty crumb. Harry puts his arm around Ginny’s shoulder and she leans into his side. He brings his hand up to play with the hair next to her ear. It’s unclear who is comforting whom.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Hermione looks out the window, not wanting to miss the first sight of the castle. Ron, in his seat across from her, leans over and tries to take her hand but she jerks away from the unexpected touch. She turns to see the wounded look on his face, and takes one of his hands in both of hers. Then she sees it, the silhouette of its towers against the fast dusking sky, a thousand lights winking in a thousand windows, and she feels magic rush through her veins again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> “Harry,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. He is the only one of her friends who really understood the wonder of discovering magic, and Hogwarts. He is the only one who knows how it felt, learning that it came at so perilous a price. Switching places with Ginny, he leans toward the window, a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. The moment he catches sight of the first place that ever felt like home to him, she feels a slight squeeze, hears his breath hitch. She turns back to look to him, and her gives her a nervous smile, a glint in his eyes approaching something like wonder and mischief.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> Fred was halfway home by the time it found its way back to him. He hadn’t expected to see it, assumed that she would have burned his little letter to a crisp, so he just stared at its floating form, mouth agape. The paper plane, growing impatient, began insistently banging into his forehead. He snatched it from the air then, as though afraid of startling it, as if it might after all burst into flames if he was too eager, unfolded it with cautious fingers. And there, under his messy scrawl were four words that near made his heart stop. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>I miss you too.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div></div>
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